"It's the consistent mark of slowly plotted put-togetherness that sustains this show's air of
tragic affection. You sense not only the artist, but Frank himself hoisting four coffins into a towering, free-standing frame anchored in dirt, or thrusting PVC pikes into the 'heads' of old- man scare-masks, all the while thinking, 'This is a really good idea.'
You'd be almost inhuman not to identify with this creature, so sincerely taken in by his quixotic creative crusades. Dead Heads, a post-sacred-rite bouquet of slain consumer trifles—faux-leather fabric samples, chunks of flame-orange bungee cord, torn strips of camouflage—distills what this show seems to be about: the soft, mutual victimization that occurs in the course of our incurable love for our own ideas—when our flashes of superiority land us with the dubious distinction of having, say, pumpkin-carved a basketball and cast it in bronze."
Check out the show. It's open in New York's Chelsea until mid-June.